


A Taste Of What You Paid For (A Brendon Urie/Ryden Fic)

by harlequingirl93



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out (Album), Circus, Dystopian, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Lots of weird sex, M/M, Mona Lisa, Multi, Nothing Rhymes With Circus (Tour), Panic At The Disco (Band), Rough Sex, Ryden, Rydon, Vices & Virtues (Album)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequingirl93/pseuds/harlequingirl93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dystopian future, two classes of people remain, the upper and the lower. Movies no longer exist, music is illegal, and nearly all books have been burned in protest of the new future. Despite the banning of debaucherous things, the Circus has made its comeback, but there are no animals doing tricks at this circus. A young boy by the name of Brendon is the main act, and the show he's got for the crowd is more than heart stopping. Get your tickets for the big top now, you don't wanna miss this show...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One - Call It Desperation

Chapter One:

The promise of summer is evident by a warm breeze that moves through the empty cargo car. The train hums and vibrates steadily lulling me in and out of consciousness. The whistle blows every now and then making me aware that I am in fact on a train. Sometimes it's hard to believe, trains have become one of the only methods of transportation since the new future has come. The one that the elders talk about, the one written about in books, it no longer exists. I know I've never seen it. Only photographs remain of a time when people thought they were making life better, doing the right thing, if they only knew what would happen I wonder if they'd do it all over again? Maybe do it differently this time?  
I reach for my backpack and pull out my notebook. Writing has always come easy to me. If it ran in my family I wouldn't know. I was sold when I was ten so that the rest of my family could eat. It sounds barbaric, but in my generation it's just how things are done in the lower class. Besides, I had more to offer than the rest of them. I had my looks. No, I'm not just being vain. Being pretty, handsome, sexy, attractive, or all of the above got you a hell of a lot of money these days if you knew where to look. My parents obviously did. I worked a farm for most of my teenaged years, until I met Kaharah.  
Kaharah owned a circus, which may not seem like much but in the year 2230 it was everything. I hear the circus used to be a big deal sometime in the 1900's, well history is now repeating itself. The general public has very little entertainment to choose from. The movies are all shut down, music is illegal, and books have been burned in piles for protest against the new future. Families don't stay together anymore so leisurely activities are pointless. The holidays mean nothing, but you can surely take yourself down to the circus and have a good time.  
I glance up from my notebook. My friends, and the other acts that perform, sit on the other side of the cargo container playing with a deck of cards. They all have something to offer, and they all have something to lose. It's a game of cat and mouse. We are human spectacles that perform for the masses. We play for our souls every night. I play the biggest game of all, though it pays for food and a roof over my head. See, I belong to Kaharah. It shouldn't be that way but it is. After my time was up tending farms, I had nowhere to go. I met him in a bar, funny nothing ever happened to the alcohol or drugs. He took one look at me and there was no question that I belonged to him. He wanted me and so he took me. That's what it was like to be part of the upper class, take what you want, ask no questions. There was no other choice for me but to let him. Now, every night he puts me on display like his little ragdoll, makes me perform, sometimes unspeakable acts, tears me down, breaks me apart. Then, when it's all over, Harlequin puts me back together again.  
She was the first person I met when I came aboard the U.S.S. Circus Freak Show. A contortionist by trade, she is kind hearted, beautiful, and never seems to let this reality get to her. We're just friends, but if I could force myself to fall for someone it would definitely be her. There was a time I thought maybe I had feelings, but hell, who could blame me with what we had to do with each other for a crowd of hundreds. I was always happy when it was her and not crowds pick or some shit Kaharah threw together for me. He had a nasty habit of being exceptionally grotesque. If I defy him it is always worse, so I don't. I put on my best clown, happy face and do what he asks of me, even if it means in the morning I'll hate myself a little more.  
Someone sits next to me and nudges my shoulder. I smell a familiar scent and smile. When I look over Harlequin is smiling like the joker, I mean come on I've read a few comics that I could get my hands on, and she hands me the joint in her hand.  
"You look like you could use it," she blows smoke out of her mouth leaning her head against the wall of the cargo container.  
"Yeah," I keep it short.  
"It wasn't your fault you know," she blurts out, "You were just doing your job."  
I can't even answer her because I don't want to think about it. The silence must eat her up because she turns to me and grabs my arm.  
"Brendon," she shakes me gently, "Look at me."  
So I do.  
"It's not your fault," she repeats, her hand caressing my cheek, "I know you would never hurt me."  
I pull her into a hug, squeezing as tightly as I can, needing her to know that I'm sorry, that I never would have done it so...God, I don't even want to think about it. Fucking Kaharah. I swear if I ever get the chance I'll kill him. She sighs when I let her go and it's evident that she is exhausted just like me, just like all of us.  
"I swear B, if it's the last thing I do Ima get us out of this shit," she tells me as she pats my knee.  
"God, Har, I hear you," I laugh a bit, "This new future thing is for the fucking rats."  
She pats my back. We have a show tomorrow night and none of us want to do it, but we have no choice. We need the money. There are very little jobs, and I don't understand how it's considered a future at all. It seems more like a death sentence to me, but I don't fear death. Right now, death would be a welcomed oasis from the life I am living. My mind may be free, but my body is worn out, used up, tainted. At 22, I'd rather be dead than alive, there has to be something better than this.  
It's then I hear the others laughing, really belly laughing. This gets me, pulls at my heartstrings, and makes me realize it can't all be bad. We have good times too. I mean, don't we? Surely their laughing is not fake, not laughing like that. I remember a time when I was very young, my parents used to laugh like that, and then I wonder how people with laughs like that could sell their child. Well, like I said it's just the way things are. A lot of things are fucked. We make our own clothes, half of the time we fight to shower, to keep warm, things have never been this bad.  
The Circus will never fail you though, come on down and have a good time. Bring all your money so you can see all the freaks, especially Brendon. On Tuesday's it's audience choice, and he'll do whatever, or rather whomever you want in whatever scenario you want or maybe you want someone to do him? Whatever your vice you can have it on Tuesday night. The other nights of the week watch Brendon and Harlequin, the contortionist, perform "magical art" together. That's right everyone, come on down and gawk, at the Circus freak, the main event, the guy who fucks on the stage. Simply, oh so simply for your viewing pleasure.


	2. Chapter Two - There Are No More Raindrops On Roses

Chapter Two:  
Harlequin

The show is always on the outskirts of a city, but the skyline can be seen from our tents. Tonight, the city looks like Oz. Emerald buildings with golden lights illuminate the brown dirt beneath my boots. I can't break my gaze even though I know if I stare too long it'll be dangerous for my mental well-being. If I could be Dorothy for just a minute I'd kill the fucking wicked witch and get us all out of here. As I tie up my pigtails I know that it will never happen. I'm careful to keep the black tips on one side and the red on the other. Blonde bangs frame my painted white face, my eyes circled completely in black lead to painted red lips. The outfit I'm wearing is a joke, at least to me anyway. It's leather. The only thing semi feminine about it is the white collar, poof sleeves, and lace that line the bottom of the corset and the skirt. Leather crisscrosses my chest with an O ring in the center. My breasts barely fit into the cups provided for them, one side red, one side blue, opposite my hair, of course. We wouldn't want anything out of place now would we? Two leather-studded straps wrap around the center of this ridiculous outfit, then, thankfully the ruffle skirt is made of a cloth fabric and allows me to breathe. Kaharah must know that this relieves me because he also makes me wear tights, and yes one side red with a blue diamond pattern, the other side blue with a red diamond pattern. He's done his job. I look like a fucking clown, a very desperate, slutty clown.   
Just like Brendon, I am lower class, and my family needed money so they sold me. Only I didn't get so lucky as to work farms, I was sold into prostitution at the age of fourteen. My parents never took into consideration that I was a virgin and had never been touched in that way. The first time was, well, honestly I don't remember much, except for vomiting in the toilet when it was over. I received five lashings for that too. The owner of the Protel did not like disobedience. He considered it an act of disrespect, a signal to my client that I did not like our little tryst. I understood not to do it again no matter how sick the client made me, and I never did.   
After years of carefully planned escape routes, hiding money, memorizing schedules, and keeping my mouth shut I finally had everything I needed to break free from the invisible chains of status that held me down. Considering the tight reigns the owner kept on all of us it was an easy escape. I held my breath for two blocks and never walked faster, until I bumped into someone.   
"Whoa," his voice was kind, "What are doing out here so late? You know the streets aren't safe for a pretty thing like you."   
I glared at him ready to spit hateful words, and then I noticed his clothes. He was lower class too. My sigh of relief must have surprised him because I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.  
"Are you okay?" he asked me.  
"Yes," I told him diverting my eyes away from his, "I'm fine now," I clutched my belongings and began walking ahead. The streets only became darker ahead of me, the air colder, and I was scared. This had never happened before, being on my own, all by myself, and left to my own defenses. I rubbed my arms with my hands and stopped in the middle of the street. With no idea where to go, I turned around to see if the man I'd bumped into was still in the vicinity. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him standing right behind me.  
"Jesus!" What the hell was he doing? "You scared me."  
"Fuck," he laughed, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just," he stammered, "You seem lost, and I can't very well let you wander out here all alone."  
I studied his face. He was pretty for a boy. His hair was perfectly straight, dark, thick, with long sides in front of his ears and shorter bangs lying on one side of his forehead. His eyes were dark, brown, inviting, and he couldn't have been much older than me if at all.   
"You got a place to stay?" He asked me.  
I shook my head.  
"Well then, come on," he extended his elbow for me to take it, but I hesitated.  
"I swear I'm not hitting on you, and I don't bite," he tells me, "Okay maybe I snore," he admits, "a little, but I promise you'll find a lot worse out here," he nods his head in no particular direction then shakes his elbow at me again. I take it this time, and we walk.  
Some can say meeting Brendon is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and some can say it's the worst thing. They can say what they want, but he saved me. Without him I honestly have no idea what would have become of me. I know technically I traded one exploitation of my body for another but at least I know Brendon, and I trust him. It wasn't supposed to be like this in the beginning. I had a talent for contorting my body and that was that. Kaharah, with his deluded mind, decided the show needed more. That's where my having sex with Brendon while contorting comes in. It's not comfortable, it really doesn't feel all that great, but it's not because of Brendon. Being intimate is a personal thing, sharing it with a bunch of upper class animals makes it the freak show that it is.  
Brendon is painted up too. His face the same white, his eyes the same black only bigger and more defined. His hair is spiked up everywhere. He looks mad, and perhaps maybe for tonight he is. He wears a gold parade vest that sparkles in the light, a bronze leather trench coat sits open over top, and his pants are as crazy as his face. Black cloth fabric with dark paint splashes make him look like he's killed a clown and is now wearing its skin. There are random holes in the pants that lace up with string making a crisscross pattern, showing skin, which is the point I think. The biggest one is at his waist and down the front of his crotch. That's the one I'll have to untie, play with, tease him with, until he can't take it anymore. Here is where it gets really fucked up. Yes, fucking in front of a crowd is not pleasant, it's not an ideal job, and when I said it doesn't feel good I meant to fuck in front of the crowd. Brendon always feels good. He's got this amazing cock, and I feel like Goldilocks, he's not too big, but definitely not small in the slightest. When I come it's real, not just for the audience, I can't help but not. I know my cheeks flush because I'm embarrassed to be enjoying myself like that. They don't deserve our private moments. They deserve a face full of dirt and possibly some hardcore suffocation.   
"You ready?" Brendon's voice is soft. It doesn't match his insane makeup or outfit, and I sigh.  
"Are we ever really ready?"  
"No," he answers pulling me in for a hug, "But the show must go on," he mocks Kaharah, "And we wouldn't want to disappoint him," he pulls his head away but keeps me in his arms. I laugh.  
"God no, that would be most tragic," I smirk.  
"Come on then, we've got a show to do," Brendon holds out his elbow to me just like when we first met. I wrap my arm around it and let him lead me to our fate for the night knowing that I'm in good hands, knowing that he won't let me fall, knowing he hates this as much as me. We share a bond, an understanding of who and what we are, so, on the stage with the bright lights, we collide night after night, and I'm not in love with him, but I love him. Kaharah thinks he's won, but the truth is I never regret one moment with Brendon, even the ones that are forced on us.


	3. Chapter Three - Let's Kill Tonight

Chapter Three:  
Kaharah

For as long as I can remember our society has been this way, upper class and lower class. My grandfather told me once that it was the fall of Capitol Hill that did it. He said it drew a line straight through the center of good and evil, causing a divide so big that it could never be fixed. Of course, he said we were the evil, the upper class, although I have to disagree with him. What I do may be out of the ordinary to some, but it's not evil. If I didn't provide these people with a job then who would?  
When I first met Brendon he wasn't more than a few days over seventeen, and he'd been sleeping in the alleys. I remember it well because I was sitting in my favorite bar in Chicagotown. He walked in, ragged clothes, dirt splotches decorating his ivory skin, his hair matted, but pretty all the same. He had, and still has, the body of a woman with a cock to talk about and a well-defined chest. If you didn't find him sexy there was definitely something wrong goin' on in your noggin'. I said nothing, and stayed at my table smoking my cigar. He approached the bartender, I assume asking for a job. The guy laughed after a minute, and with his tail between his ripped up black pants Brendon hung his head and walked passed me.  
"Looking for a job eh?"  
He stopped dead in his tracks, spun on his feet and looked at me.  
"Y-yes," he stuttered, "I am."  
"I might have one," I blew cigar smoke his way. He didn't even react, "You'd have to be willing to do anything," I tell him.  
Not a moment of hesitation before he answered with, "I have no choice but to say yes to that."  
"Oh you have a choice," I remind him, "It just wouldn't be a wise one to turn it down," My smile is deviant, and I can't help but undress him with my eyes imagining what he would look like on my stage, "It pays ten dollars a night."  
"Ten dollars?" His eyes get wide, "Are you serious?"  
Ten dollars is a lot of money in this new future. The equivalence would have been something like two hundred dollars during the new millennium. A lot had changed since then, including the value of money. I nod in his direction confirming my statement about the amount of payment.  
"Yes," he tells me, "I don't care what it is. If it pays that much then I'll do it."  
The poor thing had no idea what he was agreeing too, and I guess part of me felt a little bit bad. Then again, I was getting him off of the streets. He would be clean, healthy, have a roof over his head and never want for anything, or so it would seem. I didn't plan on Harlequin.  
When Brendon brought Harlequin into our little family I wasn't too happy. Then, I saw what she could do and knew she'd make me just as much money as Brendon, so I kept her on. At first she had her own slot, as an oddity, a freak, something for the local upper class to find pleasantly revolting, but something happened. A friend of mine who frequented the shows while we held them in Old New York came to me after a show with an idea, an idea I could not refuse to follow through with. He suggested that Harlequin's contortionist nature and Brendon's talent for getting off the crowd by getting himself off would create a masterpiece if thrown together. To be quite frank, I could hardly believe what I was hearing. It sounded insane. So, naturally, we tried it out.  
Harlequin resisted at first, but she soon learned that it didn't get her very far. I made her perform her usual act with no pay and by the second day without food she was more than willing to let Brendon stick his cock anywhere on her or in her. I preferred the latter. The day leading up to the show everyone spread the news about the new act at the underground Circus. It is to be an event of twisted, passionate excitement. So, come on down and see the new attraction! That is what the poster's read, and we only handed them out in select places due to the laws of the new future. Everyone knew about the Circus they just didn't talk about it, not publically anyway.   
That night we had twice as many upper class show up, and I believe some lower snuck it, but it was such a big night that I didn't kick them out. I wanted them to talk about what they were about to see, because the trial run was phenomenal. The stage was dark, and then a light shone on Harlequin in a wedding dress next to a man with a tux, the man was our juggler just sitting in for this act. Harley shielded her eyes from the light as a confident, angry looking Brendon walked towards her. He wore a red tailcoat jacket with a black vest, white dress shirt underneath, and black dress pants. The look was completed by a black cane and top hat. Brendon pointed the cane at the two of them.  
"What is going on here?" his British accent was spot on.  
"It's not what it looks like Brenny," Harley whined in an equally brilliant accent.  
"Not what it looks like? It looks like you were going to marry this creep behind my back," this is when Brendon pushes the juggler off of the stage to the back so he is out of the sight of the audience. He grabs Harley and pulls her to him as he drops the cane, "You don't love me anymore?"  
"I- I never did," Harley whispers, but they have little microphones that run from their ear to their mouth, clear and practically invisible.   
Brendon slaps her (it's fake) with a white-gloved hand, and her face goes to the side as if it's real and she lets out a cry. This is when the fun really begins. Brendon's hand rests on the small of Harley's back; his other comes to his belt and begins to undo it. The crowd claps when his pants fall down around his ankles. He pulls up the bottom of her dress, which only hung to her knees, and grinds himself into her.  
"But you loved this," he smiles on her lips, "You always have." she moans as her fingers thread into the waste band of his boxer briefs, she pulls them down careful to cover his cock with her hair. Brendon's not hard yet; her and I both know that. She needs to make it work. Her head moves up and down on him. The audience can hear everything she's doing. His hand goes in her hair and his head goes back, a groan escapes his lips and I know, so does she. She pushes the tailcoat off of his shoulders letting it fall to the ground, she unbuttons the vest and it follows the jacket. Starting at the bottom she begins to unbutton his shirt while he unbuttons from the top, but they don't take that off, they leave it on and open. They also leave the hat on his head. Harley reaches her hand around to her back and unzips her dress letting it fall to the floor. Her legs are so long and damn does she look good standing there in a black bra and panties.  
Brendon wraps his fingers around his cock, biting his lip as he slowly pumps himself. She nods at him as he moves closer to her, again putting his hand on the small of her back. She puts her arms over her head and lets herself fall backward, practically bending in half. The crowd claps loudly. Brendon grabs the fabric of her underwear with his teeth and pulls them down to her ankles. The crowd claps for this as well. When he comes back up he plants kisses along her legs and I know where he is going with this, but this wasn't rehearsed. I watch him intently hoping he's going to make me more money. Suddenly, I hear a gasp out of Harley and a guttural moan that should definitely be illegal. Brendon's tongue is between her legs while his hand moves circles around his cock. By the time he comes up to fuck her they are both beyond ready and the audience is ready too. He grabs her hips and sinks his cock inside of her. I don't think I've ever heard a noise quite like the one she made when this happened.  
"Oh god, fuck yes Brendon, fuck me," was what came after that sound. Well, I guess he did his job.  
"I don't know," Brendon began as rehearsed. He looks out into the audience, "What do you think folks?" Brendon asks, "You think I should fuck her?" He continues. The crowd goes absolutely wild, "Fuck her good and hard you say?" He points to a man in the front row, "Is that what all of you think?" he's such a good showman. I'd be almost proud if he were my own, almost.  
Obeying the crowds wants he digs his fingertips into Harley's hips and begins to pound her hard. Now, when I say hard I mean this boy can fuck. He's dripping sweat after a minute and Harley is already weak in the extremities from an orgasm she never expected to have so soon. I can see how wet she is now, it's running down her legs. Her stomach sucks in and I know and the crowd knows that he's sent her over the edge again. She calls out his name like he's a God, and he is for tonight. Brendon is also close to the edge, his moans are getting louder, growls are emitting from deep within his throat. Brendon is a shooter, which means he comes a lot and it's projectile. It's my money shot. He has to do it just right or it's going to be a flop. He grunts, pulls out, steps back, and a white jetting stream of come releases from his cock and shoots all over Harley's pussy, down her stomach, and to my surprise he stands over her, come still dripping off of him and shakes his cock over her face. That is my money shot. That little slut, but fuck I love him for it.  
The shows now are a lot like the one I just described. The crowd loves it. They love Brendon and Harley, and they are good together, they fuck well, they both come hard, and they both enjoy fucking each other. Now, Tuesday nights are a different night all together. When it's crowd's pick then things really get interesting. Brendon hates it, but I remind him that with travelling it doesn't happy every week, and I try to keep things as reasonable as I can. He doesn't believe me, and honestly why should he? I have made him an animal that entertains, an abomination to himself, and a joke to the crowd that loves to watch the animal. He hates me. It's okay though, one day he'll realize he would be nothing without me, just a homeless gutter rat with no family or friends, and a name that no one would give two shits about. The name Brendon, it means something now, and I did that. There was no way I would ever let him forget it either.


	4. ANNOUNCEMENT

This fic sort of got away from me and became bigger than a fan fiction. im a writer by trade, and this one, this idea became huge. it became political, deep, ugly, and all those things that make up a BOOK so guess what? as an author that's just what i'm doing with it. the book is going to be called The Show. you can find out about it here. www.ryankinkade.com - yes that's my name, well ryan is my middle name. :)


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